A knee to the gut

The postcard lies on a counter in my office. Purchased as inspiration, it’s now a reminder of something lost.

A 1906 postcard of the Wabash River.

I didn’t run the Wabash Heritage Trail Marathon today. Pain and instability in my left knee — proof that no good deed goes unpunished — made running that distance impractical. Then again, for the past several days I couldn’t run to the mailbox without hobbling somewhere between the sidewalk and the road.

The postcard, mailed from Lafayette, Ind., in February 1906, pictures a scene “On the Banks of The Wabash — Lafayette, Ind.” When looking for a fall trail marathon to run, it was the course of the Wabash Heritage Trail race that appealed to me. In my youth, I spent countless hours on the Wabash, walking its banks, wading its waters, and searching for arrowheads in nearby fields. The Wabash is part of who I am.

The opportunity to run for miles along the Wabash River was too good to pass up. And the route, an out-and-back from Battle Ground to Fort Ouiatenon, involved two locations that also hold fond memories, one from college, the other a few years ago. Indeed, this was the perfect marathon. So I put in hours of training, built a mileage base, and mentally prepared.

But sometimes the best of plans go awry.

Four weeks before the race, just days after my last long run, a 24-miler that went well, I spent an afternoon helping my father move gravel for a building project. Not half an hour into the work, hauling stone in a wheelbarrow, my left knee began to ache. It was a dull but constant reminder that something was wrong, but not to the extent that it would hinder my running. At least not yet.

The real problem started five days later, after running hard between mile markers of a cross-country course where I was getting splits for my daughter’s team. After that day’s invitational I realized my knee was hurting again, but it was a different pain in a different spot. More intense.

Things went downhill from there.

Rest didn’t help. Nor easy spinning on the trainer. Nor stretching. At least not for long, and not with any consistency. After seeming better one day, it would be worse the next. No rhyme. No reason. And with no health insurance — one of the joys of being a self-employed writer whose last name isn’t Grisham or Patterson — there wasn’t the first thought of seeing a doctor. It wasn’t financially feasible.

So I waited. I spun and stretched and took days off or ran a few easy miles. And I hoped. I prayed. More than anything, I just wanted to run. To test myself along the banks of the Wabash. To stride beside that beautiful river of my youth.

When I found the postcard eight days before the race, I knew it would be the perfect thing to use with my blog entry about the marathon. I was still planning to run. Still thinking. Still hoping.

That all changed yesterday. Following a day in which the knee seemed to be improving, things were worse than ever. I made the decision, grabbed a weed cutter and took a walk at Westwood to let the trees minister to me. I would not race the next day. It wasn’t clear whether I would run anytime soon.

There’s great irony that the knee felt better today. That I was able to get out on the road bike, for the first time in what seems like forever, and put the wind in my face. I chose to do not what was easy, but what was hard. Riding so the wind would be against me on the way home. Taking in several nearby climbs, including Pest House Hill twice.

All the while, the knee felt fine.

Taking a few strides this evening, there was no pain, but there remains a sense that something isn’t working properly, the mechanics amiss.

For now, though, I have the bike. But there remains a marathon on my schedule yet this year. I have time yet to coax the troublesome knee back to health, and a full year to get ready for the race I missed today. There are no certainties about the knee, but the Wabash River will still be there.

Road bike: 22.58 miles — Henry County

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These shoes

Brooks Cascadia 6. This year's model and the right size.

These aren’t your shoes.

Your shoes are in a box on a shelf in the back room or already re-sold to some other gullible customer. They were my shoes for two days, until I had the opportunity to return them, looking you in the face and telling you why. But you really seemed more interested in making excuses.

No, these aren’t your shoes.

Your shoes were a half size too small, like I told the kid who sold them to me. Those excuses you made when I returned them? It seems you taught them to your staff as well. After all, the kid told me the size was fine, that anything bigger would have too much room. Never mind the fact that even Brooks, the maker of the shoes, clearly states their footwear runs half a size small. What I suspect, of course, is that it had nothing to do with the size of my feet. Rather, it had everything to do with your store wanting to get rid of that particular pair of shoes.

These don’t even look like your shoes.

That’s because your shoes were last year’s model, something I pointed out when I took them back. Not that you cared. You shrugged a shoulder, lifted an eyebrow, and suggested there might not be anything special about this year’s model compared to the previous version. Despite added stability. And a completely new tread design. And that ounce they shaved off the weight, I reckon that’s not such a big deal either. Don’t think twice about the last pair of shoes you sold me — you, personally — which came so highly recommended because of their light weight. All that’s just folly now. Weight, shmeight.

Absolutely, these aren’t your shoes.

Funny, too, how you never tried to keep me in your shoes. From calling your store I discovered you actually had this year’s model, and it was in the correct size. Not that your salesman clued me in to that fact, since last year’s version was the only Brooks trail shoe I was given an opportunity to try on. And though I stood at your counter and outlined exactly what was wrong with the shoes I brought back — old model, too small — you never once asked if I wanted to try something else. You just insisted that no one there would try to sell me something that wasn’t in my best interest.

Without a doubt, these aren’t your shoes.

The new shoes I take to the trails at Westwood today came from your biggest competitor, a business I’ll patronize in the future. I’ve been a customer of yours for more than 20 years, but it will be a long time, if ever, before shoes on my feet cross the threshold of your store again. Maybe your sales staff should keep that in mind before they dump your outdated stock on another unsuspecting runner.

Trail run: 7 miles — Westwood Park

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Miles apart

A great blue heron rises to the right, just off a corner of Bridge 2. My peripheral vision catches the motion, a blur of gray, but I don’t turn to look. Every bit of energy goes into what’s left of this run, less than 600 meters to the end, but with two final climbs. I approach those hills with my eyes focused on the trail six feet in front of me, all concentration on forward motion.

Tonight she does the same. Across a grassy campus more than an hour from here, she runs with a look of concentration so intense it seems nothing else exists except the patch of ground she occupies.

We both run in the heat, but I have the coolness of the morning and the shade of the woods to take the edge off the day, at least for a few hours. But by the end of the first lap, when I leave my shirt in the truck and stride out again, water and Gatorade bottles refilled, a peanut butter and jelly sandwich in one hand, the temperature already nudges toward 90 degrees. Later in the day, in the final three miles, crossing the Big Dig, over the emergency spillway and behind the dam, three open stretches of ground heated like a frying pan, I understand what she will face her entire race. But when she runs, it’s warmer still.

The heat doesn’t show on her face. It’s the usual look, barren of emotion, nothing but effort. As she tires, her eyes do not tell. But her arms are a gossip. The distance and heat are knives carving away at her form, and her right arm begins a telltale flop, needless motion across her chest.

There’s no one to watch my form, no one to offer guidance, but I know my body telegraphs its weariness. I’m running flatter, and my right leg starts to slowly go numb. An offshoot loop through the horse camp, running two miles on grass, in the sun, isn’t helping. During the second such diversion off the singletrack, I know my run is cracked. I fill bottles at an outdoor spigot, then backtrack after less than a mile to fill them again. By the time I return to the singletrack, four miles to go, I’ve settled into a shuffle.

A teammate runs ahead of her. The time between them begins to whittle down. Twenty-four seconds. Twenty-two. Twenty. But just when it seems she’s ready to cross the gap, the distance widens again. I’m not concerned, because she’s running well and always has a good kick in the last mile.

My uptick comes with two miles to go. On one of the flatter sections of Westwood, I pick up the tempo to see if I can maintain a steady pace. The numbness in my leg is gone, and returning to a full stride feels better than the stutter-steps of the last 20-plus minutes. I’m a runner again. In my mind, I calculate the distance to go — not the mileage left now, but what would remain in a marathon. I’m worn down but encouraged, hitting my fastest split of the day.

She runs steady, but will not catch her teammate. It doesn’t matter. She’s picking up her pace, looking strong. Down a long straight stretch of level ground and around the last turn, straight toward the chute, where a digital clock broadcasts a finish time she never would have imagined.

My final mile looks nothing like hers. The pace drops to a shuffle again, what will be the slowest mile of the day, crossing under the sun as I run beside the dam, then climbing to reach the top of that structure before disappearing into the woods again. I move forward, concentrating on the trail. Seeing the blur of great blue heron as I cross Bridge 2, I don’t look up. My mind focuses on the last two climbs. Until I’m on level ground, a few short bends, then stopping my watch at Mile Marker 0, doubling over, hands on knees. Done.

She sets a lifetime PR at 5k.

I’ve put in the distance.

She’s ready for the races ahead of her.

And so am I.

Trail run: 24 miles — Westwood Park

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Days to come

Light brightens a section of the trail on the east side of Westwood Park, where the trees stop to look over adjoining fields. There’s a thinning out here that didn’t exist a week and a half ago, a shedding of leaves in the first preparation for a change of seasons. I run on a mosaic created in shades of brown, seeing the sky to my left and the organic carpet underfoot. And I know summer’s time stretches and pulls tight, each tug closer to a breaking point.

But these warm days have yet to snap. Leaving my shirt in the car, I run in shorts and half-finger gloves, wearing the same Virginia Cross Country hat that saw me through last autumn’s training and onto Tecumseh. There’s comfort in familiarity — this course, my attire, even the steady pace.

There are no great revelations to be told today — just a mention of the thinning of leaves and the slow, methodical extension of one long run to another. Nature and I prepare for days to come.

Trail run: 22 miles — Westwood Park

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Summer gifts

A great blue heron. A green heron. A belted kingfisher. An indigo bunting.

Nature takes wing about me, over the lake or into a thicket.

The forest floor is dying, but insects have never been more alive. I run in the constant drone of cicadas and other things heard but not seen, the roar of a crowd from another world.

Along the way there is a solitary blue feather, small and light at the edge of the singletrack, and a dead tree, massive and shattered, the broken end still fresh with color.

Such contrasts are not uncommon here.

Mountain bikers go by, individually and in pairs. I rode here earlier this week, rediscovering the joy of coasting down Westwood’s hills. But I still prefer this place on foot, at an easy pace like today, going far enough to truly understand what is here — something that passes unnoticed from a bike.

I see today — with my eyes, with my ears, with every breath. I experience Westwood on tired legs and an aching foot, turning the loop twice, once more than any of the bikers. When I finish, the park turns and bows to me — out of mutual respect and as a gift. Like a songbird feather and the remnants of an old dead tree. And the things others don’t see, or they take for granted.

A great blue heron. A green heron. A belted kingfisher. An indigo bunting.

Trail run: 10 miles — Westwood Park

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The Peter Principle

Peter got it right.

Popularized in the 1969 book by the same name, the Peter Principle states that “in a hierarchy every employee tends to rise to his level of incompetence.” The thought is simple — employees are promoted until they reach a position at which they are no longer competent. There they often stay, unable to advance further, while “work is accomplished by those employees who have not yet reached their level of incompetence.”

There’s been far too much of the Peter Principle in my life lately, most recently through a local school system where education seems to have become a secondary concern. I’ve spoken out at public meetings regarding a proposed solar project that has consumed the attention of school board members for well over a year — a project that seems 98 percent snake oil and 2 percent sunshine. And I’ve gnashed teeth over my daughter’s class schedule, which was gutted of contemporary literature and psychology classes that were promised. The real kicker, however, was the school’s decision to drop an upper-level chemistry class, leaving my kid, who wants to study physics in college, without any science courses her junior year.

Apparently, Peter really is in charge.

On today’s run, I take my frustration to the trail. There it occurs to me — the Peter Principle doesn’t apply to distance running.

When I ran my first marathon, I reached the halfway point and thought, “This is a piece of cake.” Six miles later I hit the wall. What I accomplished in the first 18 miles was inconsequential. The jog to the finish, which was little more than a survival shuffle, was the real face of my conditioning — my own bit of incompetence that year — and it was reflected in my overall finish time. In the end I knew what happened. I trained too little.

The clock doesn’t lie. Runners not fully prepared to race and those who make tactical errors during competition will fall from the front of the pack. They won’t find themselves in a top position unless they deserve to be there.

The same holds true for those of us who are self-employed. You can’t be a screw-up and remain at the pinnacle of the business world. Any misstep will send you sliding back down the professional pyramid to a position befitting your talent level. That’s not usually the case in the corporate world.

Though I get frustrated at times, I’m glad to be where I am — as a self-employed writer and as a long-distance runner. From here, I’ll take my chances against a world full of Peters any day.

Trail run: 10 miles — Westwood Park

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With the fish

Overlooking the Big Blue River.

We’ll remember this day not for the run, but for the fish.

From the bridge near Mill Road we lean as far over the Big Blue River as courage will allow, dropping our eyes into the knee-deep water below. Minnows we’re used to seeing, but the bass and bottom feeders, suspended in the current or clinging to rocks, surprise us. Like cartoons to a 6-year-old, the fish offer an inherent fascination we cannot turn away from. So we tip our bodies even farther over the concrete rail and imagine ourselves alongside them.

For the longest time we say nothing, as still and quiet as the channel itself. Then Liz comes up for air.

“I wouldn’t want to be a fish,” she says. “They don’t have a home.”

There’s as much curiosity as sadness in her statement, and I understand her concern. Foxes and groundhogs have holes in hillsides. Birds and squirrels have nests in trees. We have a house to return to at the end of the run. But fish inhabit a restricted world without the protection of canopies and chambers, without doors and locks.

And yet there’s a freedom here, ten feet below me, I cannot fully fathom nor appreciate — a domain of the purist form, where survival is existence enough.

Road run: 4 miles — Henry County

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A haiku

Elementary
Scribbling through the woods,
alone on a crayon line.
Color me content.

Trail run: 5 miles — Westwood Park

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Deptford Pink

We should be riding. Seventy-five miles. Distance to slay the dragons we do not admit exist.

Instead, we stand in the wind under gray skies or stoop over a polychrome radar screen, shaking heads and mumbling, our swords dull and rusty.

I move to my chambers, alone, stripping down to shorts and the thinnest of shirts, light shoes designed for speed and agility, fingerless gloves my only protection, then I step into the wild, abandoning one beast to trail another.

The canopy shields me from showers. Trees protect me from my mood. Here I break off the hunt, stopping to watch a fawn, bold spots marking its age. Here I cease all motion, closing my eyes to everything but conversations drifting down from green balconies.

In the end it’s not the head of some beast I take from this place, but a splash of color collected gently from the edge of a woods, a tickle of neon so thin it shames me to pull it from the earth.

I return to the only kingdom I have, Deptford Pink in hand, evidence of lands covered. As I open the storm door to go inside, I glance to my right, down the driveway, to a road not traveled, to a quest left for another day.

Trail run: 13 miles — Westwood Park

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Of wind and one

Angry clouds crouch behind a wooded hillside to the west, waiting for dark so they might storm my house unseen.

I am not afraid.

The wind doesn’t scare me. I have both fought it and befriended it, a cycle repeating like four seasons. I neither shy away nor take it for granted. More than anything, the wind deserves my respect.

My face, no doubt, mimics the detached look of the girls I helped coach for three months, a far-off stare where anxiety and anticipation struggle against limits and potentials. There’s the dread of discomfort and the excitement of possibilities.

Though 18 others crowd the white arc, I stand alone, as I will run throughout the race — a field of one. At the sound of a gunshot, I touch a match to the slender fuse of so many training miles and stride forward.

I am emboldened.

Tonight I saw a backbone in the sky, floating above a solitary dragonfly. White vertebra in the clouds. Darting motions in the air. They came near dusk, as the day wrote an ending and set down its pen, with me as part of the story.

Tonight I raced against myself. Others were there. Younger. The wind watched, staring hard at the first turn, glancing over its shoulder at the other end of the track. It cursed and encouraged, calling out my name. Taunting. Cheering.

Only the helpful things were heard. Like the gentle words of a coach I had when I was 16 years old or the booming voice of my father in wooden bleachers 30 years ago.

I am at peace.

Thinking of that mile while watching the clouds like a seer.

Run: Greenfield-Central All-Comers meet

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